“You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She dismissed the idea of doing so. . She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. She rang again with the same result. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. “You have forgotten.
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